Broken
by Canadian Crow
Summary: No matter who you are, or what you do, everyone has a past.


Disclaimer: Placed at the end of the story, so as not to give away the surprise, although I imagine many of you are clever enough to figure it out before the end.

A/N: Oh, like the thought never crossed your mind. This is a crossover that's been rattling around my brain for years. I finally forced my self to sit down and get it written out.

_**Broken**_

* * *

Looking back, on the rare occasions he did so, he often found his mind drifting back to College. Not surprising, really, considering how many years he spent there. But all the same, from time to time his traitorous mind liked going back there, to flashes of parties and friends, to blonde hair and blue eyes full of mischief.

Those times were usually celebrated by locking himself in his room and drinking till he couldn't even remember his own name, let alone the past. The next morning, when he'd throw out whatever items he smashed the night before, they don't ask, and they don't push. Everyone here has their demons, and no one really wants to think about them. They deal with enough monsters as it is, without inviting more to stay.

You wouldn't think it to look at him, though. He seemed to be always smirking and making jokes, but the furthest back he ever goes in his stories was to the night he got turned, and even then it was only mentioned in passing.

Truthfully, it hadn't really occurred to most of his friends that the irrepressible Hannibal King even _had_ a life before the Nightstalkers.

* * *

He wasn't born Hannibal King.

In fact, up until his first run in with a vampire, he had a completely different name altogether. The one that he had been given by his father, which had been made famous over the years by those that knew him. Not that that mattered much now. He never spoke his name aloud anymore, and rarely even thought about it.

Fact was, that guy was long dead. He died right after College, actually.

He'd stayed in school a long time. Probably longer than he should have, looking back, but at the time, he hadn't wanted to go anywhere else. After he finally graduated, he'd made so many great plans for the future.

None of them happened.

Less than a year after graduation, he'd gotten a call that an old friend (and former employee) was returning from his job in England for a visit. He'd immediately wiped his schedule clean, called his fiancée (of three weeks), and let her know. She'd been thrilled, and as soon as the flight from Heathrow was in, the three of them were partying it up like the old days.

His friend had been thrilled to hear the news of their engagement, despite his own recent and somewhat messy break-up back in England. In an effort to ease his friend's mild case of the blues, they made it the goal of the evening to find him a girl.

In hindsight, not the best idea ever.

It was like he'd told Blade once, sometimes you see a girl who has trouble written all over her, who looks like she'll run you into the ground with a smile, but that doesn't stop you for asking for her number. At the time, he thought the dark beauty sitting at the bar would be perfect for his little buddy, just the thing to get his confidence back up. His fiancée agreed, saying the woman had been eyeing their young friend all night.

After much cajoling, and not a few shots of Jager, they got him to go talk to her. And although they both had complete faith in him, both were shocked to see the woman smile seductively, take their friend by the hand, and lead him out of the bar. They were so busy congratulating each other on their matchmaking skills they didn't notice the big guys follow the new couple outside.

Neither of them ever saw the young man alive again. When he drinks, in his more lucid moments, Hannibal prays that Taj died quick.

* * *

It was coming up on last call, and Taj hadn't come back. The two of them, both hammered and both feeling quite impressed with themselves, staggered out of the to find a taxi home. Seeing none, they began to wander down an alleyway to a busier street. To this day, he can't recall why they thought it was a good idea, but that's what they did.

She noticed before he did. Her screams made certain he noticed. He likes to think he'd have seen on his own, but in the darker corners of his mind, he's reasonably certain that if she hadn't been there, he would've walked right past Taj's corpse without noticing a damn thing.

Sometimes that thought is the worst of all.

He opened his mouth to cry for help, but he never got the chance to make a sound. A hand like an iron vice closed over his mouth, another around his throat. He gave a choked gasp, and was silent. Beside him, he saw his fiancée being held in a similar fashion, although she still struggled valiantly.

And then the dark beauty stalked out of the shadows. She eyed him hungrily, ran a finger down his cheek, and smiled.

"Hi there," She whispered. "I'm Danica."

Suddenly, the hand at his throat was gone. He desperately tried to fill his burning lungs, but he never got the chance. She lunged forward, and sank her fangs into his neck. He tried to scream, but he couldn't make a sound. Behind him now, all he could hear was his love thrashing against her attacker, her own cries muffled and weak.

And growing more and more quiet.

_Oh God, I'm sorry Gwen, _He'd whispered in his mind as the thrashing slowed to a stop. _I love you and I'm so sorry._

* * *

The next couple of years are a little blurry, a fact he is always been thankful for. What he does remember is a mash-up of images, his time as Danica's plaything. After he'd turned, she violated him again and again, committing acts that would've meant certain death, if he were still human. And every time, he'd barely heal up before she was once more releasing her frustration and lust on his body.

All too soon, he felt his tenuous grip on sanity starting to slip. He lay on the floor of his cell for hours, staring at the door; certain that the next sinful torture she thought up would finally break him. That he'd finally snap, and lose his mind completely.

Then one day, as Danica was doing things with a vibrator and a scalpel that made him shudder to this day, she tauntingly asked him how he felt. And in a moment of bizarre clarity, he found the strength to answer.

"Actually, this pretty much sucks, you twisted bitch. Thank for asking." He'd snapped. "Go work on your fucking tan."

And just like that, Hannibal King was born. Cynical, irreverent, sarcastic...and utterly fucking untouchable.

Someone they couldn't break, ever.

And as time passed, he became more Hannibal King than anything else. He'd mouth off at his captor, and even if they beat him to a pulp for it, he still won, because he'd gotten to them. No matter what they did, they couldn't break Hannibal King, because Hannibal King _truly did not give a fuck._

He probably could have gone on a long time like that, drawing strength from an inner well of rage and defiance he never knew he possessed. But then one day, Abby came and saved him.

There was no great fanfare or climactic battle. Abby and the Nightstalkers bust in while Danica and her brother were away, killed the vamps, dosed him with the antidote, and carried him out to question him. It wasn't until much later that they realised how badly he hated the leeches. It took less than a month to go from prisoner to gunslinger, and since then he'd killed every one he'd come across.

And that really was turning a frown upside down, because by now he really was Hannibal King. What was left of his original mind and personality remained closely guarded, shared with no one.

Not even Abby, his best friend and personal savior. (_Hallelujah, amen._)

But behind every raid on a blood facility, behind every strike on a sanctuary or nightclub, he had purpose. He didn't kill them for himself, really. Why would he? Hannibal King was untouchable.

He killed them to quiet the voice deep in the back of his mind that kept crying for it's lost love. The voice that was as familiar to him as his own..._was_ his own, once upon a time.

When Danica and her boytoys bit the big one, thanks to the Daystar virus, the voice had quieted...for a while. But soon enough he was back on the road, the mighty Abigail Whistler alongside, hunting the things that other people would just as soon not imagine.

And maybe someday, the voice will vanish. Maybe when all the evil things are dead, it'll just go away. And maybe he'll just fade away right along with it, like a particularly vivid dream fades after you wake up.

But for the time being, he had work to do. And God fucking help anyone or anything that tries to stop him.

* * *

"Hannibal?"

He was startled from his thoughts by Abby's voice beside him. Taking his eyes briefly off the road, he turned to look at her. "What's up?"

She gazed out the window rather than look back at him. "You ever think about your life before all this? You ever worry that... I don't know... you gave up too much to this fight?"

He turned his eyes back to the rain-slick highway. "Sometimes and no."

"What?" She asked, confused.

"Sometimes I think about before." He clarified. "No, I don't worry."

"No?"

He turned once more to look at her. "Worrying is like a rocking chair, Abby."

She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"It gives you something to do, but it doesn't really get you anywhere." He finished, his voice calm.

Then he looked back to the long road, and a small smile crept onto his face.

"Write that down."

-END-

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A/N: Figure it out? I hope so; cause the disclaimer gives it away.

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Ready?

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Here you go.

Disclaimer: National Lampoon's Van Wilder and Blade: Trinity are the property of their respective owners. This fiction is written for entertainment only.

No profit was made. At least I never saw any.


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